


Diversion

by jamaillith



Category: Black Books, Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1895958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamaillith/pseuds/jamaillith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark isn't lost. Tony Stark doesn't get lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diversion

**Author's Note:**

> This is young!pre-movie!Tony, and pre-series!Bernard.

Tony Stark isn't lost. Tony Stark doesn't get lost. He is (he tells himself as he walks down the rain-darkened sidewalk, occupying the larger part of his mind by working out the exact chemical formula required to remove the ancient spots of gum that pass under his expensive shoes) merely trying to find something interesting to do.

Soho sounds promising.

He'd get Happy to drive him, but he had to make something of a, let's say, quiet exit in order to escape the clutching hands of all those university fellows. Three beers, two martinis and at least an eighth of a bottle of scotch, and his lecture on the future importance of semiconductor devices had, thankfully, gone without a hitch.

There's something to be said about genetics. More specifically, there's something to be said about inherited alcohol tolerance. 

A shop front catches his eye. It stands out from the others along the street- not because of its use of colour, but rather the lack of it. Black Books.

There's a carefully-lettered sign stuck to the inside the window that says, simply, 'go away'.

Tony smiles to himself. He's never been one to obey orders.

He tugs on the lapels of his Armani suit, settling it back on his shoulders, and strides across the street towards the shop, his heels clipping up sprays of water from the concrete.

Contrary to the message of the sign, the door isn't locked. It swings open when Tony leans on it, and he steps into the shop to the chorus of a ringing bell.

It's small, and dark, and it smells like dust and moldering paper and cigarette smoke. There's a man passed out on the desk at one end of the room.

Tony takes his time. He examines the books on the tables. Runs his fingertips over their covers, the dark leather turned soft and bruised with age.

At the sound of his footsteps, the man stirs.

'Go away.' His voice is muffled by the desk.

Tony plucks a book from the pile closest to him and flips it over to read the back.

'Go away,' the man repeats, after a few moments of silence.

Tony ignores him.

'I don't know if you noticed as you barged in, but there's a sign, in the window, which specifically states-' he finally lifts his head, glaring at Tony before he even really catches sight of him.

Tony raises his eyebrows. The man has a receipt stub stuck to his forehead, and he looks not a little like he's been asleep on the desk for some time.

'I'm sorry,' Tony says, returning his attention to the book in his hand, 'I was under the impression this was a book shop.'

'Oh,' says the man, and leans back in his chair as if Tony's words have answered some question. 'American. Of course. Wonderful.' He flips a hand towards the piles of books on the tables. 'No. Fine. Go right ahead. Go on. By all means, use my stock to wipe the hamburger grease off your fat capitalist fingers- you with your.. your posh suit and your fancy hair and your big car probably parked outside probably taking up the whole road, leaking oil and fat and democracy all over everything-'

Tony's eye lands on a bottle of wine precariously balanced on top of a stack of papers. He points at it.

'Is there any left?' He asks. 

'No,' blurts the man. 'Yes. It's mine. Not yours. Go away. Leave me alone to contemplate the daily horror of my life.'

Tony flips his book back onto the pile. Under the narrow gaze of the shopkeeper, he wanders over to the bottle and picks it up by the neck. He sniffs at it and grimaces. It smells like Grape Kool-Aid and battery acid. 

'Don't make that face!' The man is suddenly in motion, half-falling over the desk to grab the bottle out of Tony's grip. 'Don't make that face at my wine!'

Tony shrugs and reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket. 

'So I can't interest you in something a little more.. refined?' He pulls out the embossed silver flask Obadiah gave him for his twenty-first birthday. Wiggles it a little, so the liquid inside sloshes enticingly. 

The wild-haired shopkeeper eyes the flask for a moment, then sticks out the hand not holding the wine. 

'Bernard Black,' he says. 

'Tony Stark,' Tony replies, smiling. 

 

\---

 

Two hours later, both the flask and the bottle of wine are empty, and they're sitting on the couch in the corner of the shop, talking. 

Well, Bernard is talking. Tony is just sitting with one arm casually resting on the back of the couch behind Bernard's head, listening as he extols every delicate nuance of his hatred for his customers, his neighbours, his parents, the postman, the post office in general, and everyone else he can think of. He's talking so fast and his accent is thick enough that Tony's only understanding one word out of every five, but he doesn't mind so much. He watches the muscles move under Bernard's skin, at throat and jaw, and the fan of his eyelashes.

'.. and they come in here with their.. their little children with the big eyes and the ice cream, they have ice cream, dribbling over their sticky little fingers, and they go around touching everything and the mother just stands there and coos 'oh, precious, look at him, look at him, he's so cute', like a.. a.. giant insipid pigeon-'

'Have you ever thought of hiring an assistant?' Tony asks, eyeing the bottle of wine clutched to Bernard's chest and wondering if he can get away in time to check out the table-dancing club on Tottenham Court Road he's heard so much about.

'Impossible. I have a very delicate.. delicate system of,' he waves a hand in the general direction of the shop, 'of filing, it'd take years for another person to learn, years, and besides, it's a very tiny shop really, I barely fit in it myself, I'd have to hire someone very small - what are you doing?' 

Tony, having decided that he might as well make the best of the situation until he can make good his escape, is rubbing the pad of his thumb absently up and down Bernard's shoulder. 

'Nothing.'

Bernard looks at him like he doesn't quite believe him but can't work out why. 

'I need.. I need a cigarette,' he decides, and begins fumbling one-handed in his pockets, shifting from side to side on the couch as he searches, the concept of putting the wine bottle down having escaped him for the moment. As it turns out, the combination of naturally unsteady balance and a healthy amount of alcohol in his system means that he slips a little too far on the leather and has to fling out a hand to keep him from falling off. 

A hand that lands squarely on Tony's expensively-clothed thigh. 

Bernard suddenly goes very still. Tony, amused by this new development, smiles at the back of his head. 

'I.. my hand is on your thigh,' Bernard points out, rather unnecessarily. 

'Yeah, it is.' 

'On your thigh. My hand.' 

'Pretty much.' 

'I.. uh.. this..' 

Moving slowly and carefully, as if Bernard is a small animal he doesn't wish to startle, Tony unhooks his arm from the back of the couch and puts his hand over Bernard's. Pulls it a little higher. Bernard's palm whispers over the silky fabric.

They stay that way for a moment, then Bernard turns to face him. 

'You're a very strange person,' he says. Tony grins. 

'Like you wouldn't believe,' he replies, and lifts his other hand to brush his fingertips over the curve of Bernard's jaw, the line of his temple. He leans in and Bernard meets him mostly halfway, muttering something about Americans and rohypnol against Tony's lips and Tony pushes his fingers into Bernard's hair and tugs Bernard's hand into his lap, and after that he forgets everything else.


End file.
